


Lines in the Sand

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fic Exchange, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Restraint, all the lovely creepyship things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:57:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-imposed constraints don't have a tendency to last. </p><p>Written for Round Eight of the LJ GOT Exchange for the prompt:  Petyr and his 'daughter' Alayne have been in the Vale for many months now, hiding her true name and their true relationship. Petyr knew he had to end it before he sent her away to her new husband. But could he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lines in the Sand

"Well now. If your expression is any indication, I would say that she meets your approval?"  
  
Harrold turned and looked at him, almost as if he had forgotten that the other Lord was there. Petyr inwardly despised him for that lapse. Such a simple and foolish mistake it was to forget one's surroundings like that. Alayne would consider that a very obvious failing, of that Petyr was certain.  
  
Harrold was a handsome man, though in the bland way that left you quite unable to recall his exact appearance. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a smiling face. That was all Petyr cared to remember. Perhaps Alayne would scold him later for his lack of observation, but the boy simply did not warrant such a close watch. Not like Alayne did.  
  
"She does indeed, my Lord," Harrold said, with the lightness that suggested that, if pressed, he couldn't come up with any reason for that beyond her beauty or her grace. Traits that Alayne possessed in spades, of course, but traits that lay on the surface. The real beauty was what was underneath those social graces. What she kept hidden from the mindless glare of their fellows.  
  
Petyr saw it all.  _He_  had been watching her carefully.  
  
This, in and of itself, was not unusual. He always watched her, had held back and observed her wind her way through the thick of court. Had seen her charm the Vale with smiles and good graces, rule a household with the soft yet firm hand that came to her naturally. She had a skill that he both admired and delighted in, a finesse that reminded him too much of himself for him to not enjoy.  
  
But as their time in the Vale had lengthened, as their charade went on with no end in sight, Petyr had been paying particular attention to Alayne. No movement at the dinner table, no soft laugh, no fluttering of her skirts went unnoticed. And Alayne saw him; saw him and stared back in turn. There was little annoyance to be found in her own gaze. She was sizing him up, as only an equal would.  
  
Of course, this increased observation would not be unusual to anyone who knew the true nature of their relationship, but that truth was difficult to place into words even if they could speak publicly about it. They were twisted and entwined in each other's lives in such a way that what existed between them did not lend itself to easy understandings. It was a curious thing--pain and desire and respect wrapped them about each other, kept them bound tight, but always at a distance, almost in fear. Lines must not be crossed, temptations must remain closely guarded. It was an odd feeling, to be so close to a woman and to hold himself at arm's length. Perhaps it was for the best--the last time he had allowed his feelings to spill from him they had been swiftly followed by his blood.  
  
But this boy before him, with his simple smiles, threatened to cut through it all, sever the two of them for good.  
  
"I'm so very pleased to hear that. As any father would."  
  
He smiled at Harrold, his expression utterly false, but the boy paid no attention.  
  
\----  
  
"And does he meet your approval?"  
  
Alayne had been studying her wine with a careful eye, as if the red depths held some vital information. When he spoke her blue eyes locked on Petyr's grey and he could see her mind at work. He leaned back in his chair and sipped from his own goblet. His second already, he found he needed the drink more and more since Harrold had broken into their lives.  
  
"He's been a proper gentleman," was the response he got. Alayne's tone of voice would seem, to most others, warm and genuine. Petyr just smirked. He could see the artifice that overlaid her words like a veil. Not for the first time, he felt a sense of relief that skill such as theirs was in short supply. If anyone else were to hear the truth in her voice the marriage would be over before it began. He could not pretend to be truly distressed by that, but the fallout from it would be utterly destructive. All those plans, all that power just within his reach.  
  
"I take it he did not try and kiss you then?" He tried to keep his own tone light, though he knew well enough Alayne could see through his just as clearly as he could hers. Could hear his jealousy, his bitterness at this all. He decided he did not care.  
  
"Just on the hand. He asked for more, but I let him know that he must wait."  
  
"Clever girl." He downed the remains of his cup in one gulp. The wine was bitter, far from the finest, but with the arrival of winter they must be careful with their stores.  
  
She smiled; it reached her eyes. Even after all this time together he was still left momentarily flustered by her warm and genuine smiles. It was not a trait of which he was  _proud_ \--he knew quite well that it was a weakness--but he simply could not help himself. Alayne was a willing pupil but she was also needy in her own way. Needy for approval, needy for validation. Needy for him in a way he thinks they were both rather surprised by.  
  
Alayne sat her goblet aside, nearly untouched. She moved her gaze from Petyr to the slim hands that now laid clasped in her lap and he could tell she was working up her courage to speak to him on a matter of some importance.  
  
He was not mistaken. "Petyr…" she started. The name made him sit up. It was rare, it spoke of a dangerous level of trust. It had a reverence on her tongue that he had never heard from anyone else.  
  
"Yes sweetling?" he breathed. He put his own wine aside and rose, walking around his desk to the front where she sat, halfway sunk in a luxurious chair. He leaned against the polished wood and looked down at her, his gaze expectant.  
  
She met his gaze through long lashes. Even after all this time he was still in awe of the beauty laid before him, her features only enhanced by the mind he knew lay underneath. By the potential for danger he saw in every gentle step, even though she was somewhat unaware of its existence, of the raw power she possessed. Her gaze pinned him back against the finely carved wood of his desk.  
  
"Us…" Alayne breathed the word out, imbued that single syllable with the meaning of several months worth of build up, of games and teases and shared lies. Of common stains.  
  
He straightened against the hard wood, his hands gripping the smooth surface tightly. For several moments the only sounds in the room were the cracking of logs in the fire and their measured breathing.  
  
"What is there to say on that?" he finally answered, his words clipped, voice low but not unkind. "Nothing irreversible has happened between us."  _We've been careful._  "And if you speak of any other matters…"  _The Moon Door for Lysa, poison for Sweetrobin, plans that he was not comfortable speaking out loud._  "Well, surely those will have no bearing on your marriage."  
  
Alayne was soaking up his words. Her expression had not changed while he spoke, but he noticed one hand move to the armrest of her chair, gripping it, just as he gripped the edge of his desk. The tension was thick in the room and they were both braced against it.  
  
With a heavy breath he freed himself from his support. Petyr reached out with a soft hand and cupped her chin, directing her eyes up, further and further, until the long, lovely line of her throat lay exposed. His thumb reached out to brush against her plump lower lip, his chest clenching when he saw the flash of desire alight in her eyes.  _We're almost there. These games must come to an end._  He had no desire to send her to her marriage with something that could prove to be the end of them both.  
  
And yet she was looking at him, mouth parted, eyes shining. An innocent, pure face wrapping up a clever girl with more skill in her hands than she would ever give herself credit for. Her ivory skin was soft under his hand and even her darkened hair was beautiful to him at that moment. She was a creature meant to be cherished, to be  _worshiped_. The more he looked at her the more he knew his fate was sealed, his actions already mapped out for him.  
  
He could not send her to her marriage like that, as  _his_. But that was not today.  
  
With a nudge of her chin he drew her to her feet.  
  
And with that--the barest of movements, the most inconspicuous of actions--the line had been crossed.  
  
\----  
  
They were cautious, at Alayne's insistence. Petyr was proud of her.  
  
Sometimes, in the heat of the moment--with seed slick on her legs, with his skin still burning from her grip--he hated her for it. He longed, in these moments of heavy breathing and closed eyes, to spoil it all. To mark her in such a way that all could see. A bite on her neck, red on ivory, that he would press upon within Harrold's gaze, fingers caressing it as he watched the boy break. Marks made outside of bed--the touch of a hand on her hip, the brush of his lips against hers--that would show them all. This woman, this maddeningly clever, impossible beautiful woman, came undone for  _him_.  
  
He didn't of course. Alayne had the right of it. He marveled at her ability to compose herself, to compartmentalize what happened under the furs. Once, while they faced each other in bed, their heartbeats slowing, he had asked her how she came to have such restraint. She laughed, that false light-hearted laugh that made his heart ache, the laugh of a young woman who had seen far too much.  
  
"I'm a woman." And that was that.  
  
Of course his moments of carelessness were just that, fleeting desires. He certainly wouldn't  _act_  on them. In the cold morning light he appreciated her restraint, his admiration two-fold. For one, it was simply safer. Not just for their well-being, the knowledge that they could not allow themselves to be discovered, but for the fact that their time was short. Every night, Alayne's slim form locked against his, limbs tangled, he would count how many nights were left to them. As they dwindled, as her marriage loomed, he knew that the break was soon. He knew that there must be some distance between them, some coolness even if it was only during the day. It would soothe the pain.  
  
But there was something else as well. Putting up these barriers, walling away feelings and desires, limiting it to locked rooms, made it all so much more delicious somehow. There was a beauty in restraint, in holding oneself back. In sharing this in silence it added an edge to their common crimes, hardening their masks, strengthening their bounds. For as much as he wanted to have her in the open, he knew that there would be a quality lost where it to happen. And, he suspected, neither of them would be entirely comfortable without some level of artifice.  
  
Combined, it made the days before her marriage the most exquisite torture either of them had ever known.  
  
\----  
  
"A fortnight."  
  
She had spoken those words in the softest voice imaginable as he kneeled poised between her legs, ready. He looked her in the eye and saw sadness and desire mixed in two, and he almost buried his head in the furs.  
  
Instead he gripped her legs harder, thrust into her with a force that made them both gasp, backs arching away from each other before they tangled once again, mouths and limbs, their lungs sharing the same air.  
  
They didn't speak of it again until the day of the wedding.  
  
\----  
  
"Sansa." It felt good to say it again.  
  
She met his gaze in the mirror. Auburn hair returned, it looked brighter than usual. Perhaps the dye was not close enough, perhaps the previous dull brown made it shine in comparison. It couldn't possibly be any happiness at her impending marriage.  
  
She smiled. It was all for him, he told himself.  
  
"Petyr." Reaching up she covered his hand with hers where it rested on her shoulder. Fingers locked together, she drew him down to her for a kiss. It was something he had noticed more and more these days. Sansa led.  
  
And though Petyr's hands were doing the work, it could not be mistaken--to anyone that  _really_  saw them, which was no one--that she was in control. His fingers were in her laces, tearing the new gown away from her flesh before it had even gotten its chance to be seen. In exposing her to him, his hands and lips worshipping her, Petyr was utterly silent. It was Sansa who spoke, bidding him on, asking him to take her, to make it something that she would remember after being sent off with her husband, after the thread was broken. Her mouth locked on his, teeth and tongue getting in the way of heavy breathing as Petyr pulled her to her feet, pushing her over. Utterly inelegant, utterly desperate, utterly perfect.  
  
Gown and shift pooled at her waist, Sansa gripped her hands on the finely polished surface of the vanity, several small vials knocked over as Petyr took her, perfume filling the air. Fully sheathed he savored her for a moment, focusing on the perfect silence that existed between them, before a hand tangled in her freshly pinned hair. Pulling her up by it they locked eyes in the glass, once more, as he took her roughly. They stared at each other until the very end.  
  
Afterward, he helped her rearrange herself, his chest tight. They had her looking pristine, innocent--until her skirts were lifted, the evidence of  _Them_  written all over her legs.  
  
\----  
  
And for a fortnight, it had ended.  
  
Petyr drank more than he had ever been accustomed too. He needed it, even more than when Cat died--at least in that moment there had been no possibility of reunion. She was  _gone_. Sansa lingered.  
  
He saw little of her, occupied as she was with her husband and occupied Petyr made himself when he was not drinking. But yet she was there. Her scent, the memory of her touch, of the sound of her skirts. It all remained--strengthened, even--mocking him, ripping him apart until he was able to slip into the peaceful arms of the drink.  
  
He had been a fool, really. To think that he could have her and let her go, to think that once the line had been crossed they could retrace their steps. She remained wrapped about him, her limbs clutching his marred chest to herself, her voice strong in his ear during his dreams. He wondered if she felt it this strong, this ache of denial from having something that felt so right only to have it end in a day. He couldn't decide if it was better or worse to think that she hurt as much as him, felt it as deeply as he did.  
  
Petyr knew he should be ashamed of himself. He was not practicing control, not holding on to the idea that restraint was sweeter than openness. But too many nights spent at her side, watching her sleep, had gotten to him. She was in his blood.  
  
It had ended just like that, with vows to the Seven. And it started again, just like that, with no preamble.  
  
He had been in his private chambers, staring out at the bleak winter landscape, when he suddenly became conscious that he was not alone.  
  
"Sansa," he said before turning. And indeed it was her. Finely dressed, composed, her eyes locked on his.  
  
"Forgive my absence, Petyr." Her voice was beautiful, almost practiced.  
  
The ground suddenly became quite interesting. "No need. You are a wife now."  
  
The distance between them grew smaller and smaller until she was at his side, gazing out at all before them. Petyr was looking at her.  
  
"I am. Another title, another person." Sansa closed her eyes. She did not elaborate but Petyr knew her meaning.  _That's not me_.  
  
He suddenly moved his eyes back to the window so that they were in sync. "We knew it couldn't last."  
  
"We did." She took a deep breath and when she spoke again it was in a less mannered tone. Still charming, but more grounded. "And why was that?"  
  
Petyr remained quiet for a long moment, before finally settling on what they had both justified to themselves over and over again. "It wasn't safe to move forward."  
  
"Oh." It was spoken softly and after a heartbeat her gaze finally left the window, eyes shining at him. There was the twinge of a smile on her face and before they knew it their fingers were locked tight, an almost painful grip. "I think we both know more than a bit about discretion."  
  
He studied her. Her body was a mix of her different selves. Her frame was solid, poised, unmarred, but with a tightness about her that suggested she would always be on guard. Her eyes were shining with tears but there was a smile there, a real one. Looking at her then, at her complexities, he thought he would never care to look at another woman ever again. She was  _his_. His creation, his mistakes, his partner. Apart from her he had nothing worthwhile.  
  
He kept their fingers locked but raised his other hand to the side of her face. Skimming a loose strand of hair, his chest swelled when she leaned into his touch. Long fingers made a path down her cheek, cupping her chin.  
  
With a nudge of her chin he drew her close.  
  
And with that--the barest of movements, the most inconspicuous of actions--the line had once more been crossed.


End file.
